Butterfly Garden (12 page)

Adam regarded her again, suspicious of the sound, somehow sure it came from her. He looked back at Katie and nodded. “They’re for mommies. Put them back now.”

Katie did and Sara breathed easier, until Lizzie tugged Adam’s jacket. “I want to buy them for Sara.”

She and Adam looked at each other then. She knew she stared wide eyed with dismay, but she saw something new in Adam’s expression ... a sparkle in his eyes, a deeper curve, even, in that near-smile of his. It was enough to make her giddy. Considering the cause, she put her unsteady hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. “Thank you, baby, but I don’t need—”

“Put them in the bag,” Adam told Lizzie.

“Oh,” Sara squeaked, “But I don’t—”

“In the bag,” he said again, warning her that his decision was made. “Lizzie wants them for you. You shall have them.”

Stubborn, Sara thought, more stubborn than her, maybe.

He gave her his back, saying the subject was closed. And she followed him into the next aisle ... where Lizzie was holding a breast pump, which even Jordan had been embarrassed to explain to Sara. “What’s this for, Datt?”

And that was the end of Adam’s patience and their excursion. “Time to go,” he said fishing money from his pocket. “Sara, get them into the buggy.”

And Sara thought that perhaps he was more resolute than he was stubborn, and that there were times, like these, that such a thing might be considered good rather than bad.

The girls slept all the way home.

Snow muffled the sound of the horses hooves forming a harmony that blended with the jolting movement of the carriage. “We had a wonderful day,” Sara said after a while, her words making mist with her breath.

A sound escaped Adam that might have been a strangled groan. “I never talked to them before,” he said speeding Sara’s heart with the admission, making her pray he wasn’t sorry he’d done it. “Pris is like Abby,” he added after a while. “She whines because she wants something I cannot give her.”

Oh, Lord, and what did that mean?  And why did the words turn her both prickly cold and panicky warm at the same time?  Sara dared not speak, in fear of breaking the spell his words wrought, words freely given, a rare treat.

“You’re good for her, for them,” he said. “You’ve got something Abby never had.”

Sara was afraid of the answer, but she had to ask the question. “What do I have that Abby lacked?”

Adam was quiet so long, Sara thought he wouldn’t answer, then she realized he was considering his answer, as he had in the store. From now on, she was going to give him time before losing her temper or walking away in frustration.

“What did Abby lack that I have?” she repeated after a while.

He looked full at her then, letting that near-smile of his grow, along with an eye-sparkle that made her heart jump. “Bloomers?” he suggested.

That night, he came into her bedroom.

She had just donned her nightgown and let down her hair. And as she stood surprised and unsure, he examined her, head to foot. “Bare feet,” he said. “Bad as the girls. Where are your socks?”

Struck dumb, Sara could only point to the open drawer on her dresser. He picked up a pair and motioned her to the bed. “Sit.” When she did, he unrolled her socks and made to put them on her.

“No, I—  Don’t.”

So he nodded and handed her the socks, sitting back on his haunches to wait while she put them on.

She needed to raise her leg to do so, but he was down there on the floor, where he could see, and she was only wearing her nightgown, after all. Frustrated, she threw her socks at his head. “Just do it.”

Adam raised a brow and complied.

Funny how such strong hands could feel so soft sliding along her ankle.

“Get in,” he said. “Cold tonight.”

Sara slid under her blankets thinking, ‘cold or not, there must be a fire around somewhere.’  She was sweating, and she couldn’t decide which way to settle. Sit up?  Lie back?  Lie facing him?

She sighed and lay on her back, her hands clasped over the quilt, feeling stupid, useless, as if he had the upper hand, towering over her as he was, a feeling she disliked a great deal.

Adam tried to sit beside her on the bed, nudging her legs over to give him room. He stroked one of her fingers, turned the hand over to examine her palm and trace her calluses.

His face was serene, kind even, maybe not as much sadness rested deep in his eyes, as she’d glimpsed hiding there in the past. His beard had been trimmed that morning but she liked it shaggy as well, maybe more so. There was a strength about him, a largeness, bending over her as he was, those wide shoulders of his, capable of hefting huge sacks of grain, or bails of hay. He could carry his girls on his shoulders if he wanted. Would he ever want so simple a joy?

He could carry her. Where would he carry her?  Up the stairs?  To her bed. She was in her bed. He was here with her.

Sara thought she knew exactly how he must have felt when she gave him his baths. There were parts of her that reacted so physically to the soft stroke of his hand, she’d be standing the sheet up too, if she had the right parts. As things were, she knew she was ready, eager to cooperate with whatever he might offer.

Should she offer?  Did wives do such things, seduce their own husbands?  Better than seducing other women’s husbands, she supposed, swallowing a bubble of laughter.

Despite her determination not to allow it, Sara’s gaze wandered to the flap of his trousers, and she was sorry, because he was as ready as her.

She looked to see if he’d noticed her perusal, but he was too busy watching where her breasts pointed her gown. “Cold,” she said to excuse her embarrassment.

“I don’t think so.” His voice was ragged, his gaze directed there, where he reached to touch one aching peak, almost as if his hand weighed too much to do anything else.

Sara arched, reaching too, and met that hand, sooner than he expected. A flick of his fingers, a rasp at the nubbin, and Sara could feel herself moisten in anticipation.

Adam’s hand trembled, but he continued.

Sara grasped the bedclothes and closed her eyes while he teased her through her nightgown. Both hands now, touching, molding, lifting each breast toward….

Adam leaned over and took her nipple into his mouth despite her gown, and Sara almost came undone. Stretching out beside her, he suckled hard, wetting her gown, pulling delicious shivers from her, with his lips and tongue.

Streams of pleasure shot from the sight of his torture to her throbbing womb. She wanted him there, inside her, filling that empty place, that place meant for him alone.

If she could just touch the heat of him.

Sara rolled against him to get closer, close enough to touch ... and knocked him to the floor.

Adam said a word Sara didn’t know and sat up, then he hung his arms off his raised knees while he took several deep, unsteady breaths.

Sara was having trouble getting air, herself, and she wanted badly to cry.

A sound escaped Adam, strangled again, hoarse. She thought for a minute he was crying, until she realized it was laughter, of a sort, hard and rusty. He seemed as surprised by it as her. Mad Adam Zuckerman was laughing, even if the sound did have an edge of hysteria to it.

Sara burst into tears.

That stopped him. He jumped up and took her into his arms to soothe her and rub her back. “Don’t cry. It’ll go away. The want will pass. It always does.”

Sara shoved him. He was torturing her, putting his arms around her while he was telling her to let the yearning go. She rose to her knees and poked his immovable chest. “Adam Zuckerman you have to be the stupidest man God ever created.”

He sobered. “So my father said.”

Sara realized, barely in time, that pointing out her frustration over his unwillingness to make her his wife in truth, might not be in the best interest of a successful seduction. She sat back on her feet. “I was crying because I was happy.”

“Well, there you go. I am stupid, ‘cause I have no idea what the devil you’re talking about.”

“I never saw you laugh. Abby said you never ... but you just did. Don’t you see?  You laughed today. You talked to the girls, instead of ignoring them. Did you see their faces?”

Adam lowered his head. “I saw their faces. And just now, in that bed, I saw yours.” He touched her cheek, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Ah Sara, don’t you see, I’m no good for any of you.”

“Let us be the judge of that.”

He didn’t say anything to that, considering his answer again, no doubt. Best she not give him too much time. She lay back and yawned. “I’m tired.” She scooted over to the far side of her bed and turned to face him, patting the empty side. Get in and let’s get some sleep. It’s been a long day.” She pretended indifference, as if it were easy for her to make such an offer, when it was not, and waited for him to make the next move.

Yearning she saw on his face. Need. Want. Despair. “It’s not going to happen, Sara. You and I will never, ever, share a bed. And that is the way it has to be.”

“Then why did you come in here tonight?”

“Because I’m an idiot, but don’t worry, I won’t make the same mistake again.

And he didn’t, not even the next morning or the morning after that.

A week passed, during which he avoided her room altogether, morning, night, and in between. They were back to where they began. Adam Zuckerman was madder and more remote than ever, and Sara was almost as bad.

* * * * *

February turned into the coldest Ohio had seen in recent memory, keeping children housebound and adults ready to scream ... until two strangers entered their midst.

Two women traveling alone spent a day going door to door looking for the Amishwoman who delivered babies. The Amish kept their mouths shut around strangers, so the search was anything but easy, but everyone wanted to know who would be looking for Sara, when she hadn’t a soul in the world.

When Sara opened her kitchen door, two women stood on her stoop, wearing odd brown outdoor bonnets and capes, while their buggy in the drive, Sara noted with shock, was as yellow and bright as the summer sun.

“Are you Amish?” Sara’s thoughtless question embarrassed her. “Sorry. Can I help you?”

The older of the women nodded. “Indiana Amish, we are, and looking for the Amishwoman who delivers babies, Sara Zuckerman. But no one seems to know her.”

Sara looked at the younger of the two, but saw no sign of pregnancy. “I am Sara Zuckerman. Come inside, please?” She ushered them into her kitchen and shut the door. “Welcome. Can I take your capes and bonnets?  The fire will warm you.”

Silently, they handed her their outer wear. Their indoor kapps were gray and gathered rather than pleated, their dresses and apron bodices boxy, not vee-shaped, all in shades of grays and browns. Odd about the bright buggy, given all that. “Tea?” Sara offered, indicating the chairs at her kitchen table.

The younger of the women nodded and sat. The older followed her lead.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Sara asked again as she put honey jumbles and crabapple tarts in a plate, but neither answered. The younger looked toward the older woman to respond, but the elder seemed unready, or unwilling, to speak.

Sara brought the kettle and tea strainer to pour.

The older woman smiled and nodded. “We hear you deliver babies and make the Elders mad doing it.” The woman’s smile, her admiration perhaps, made Sara want to hug her. She smiled, instead. “I am afraid so.”

“Mercy Bachman told us,” the elder of the two said, which started them talking about Sara’s first patient and her sweet little girl. “Mercy is expecting again,” the elder stranger said. “They are planning to return, so you can deliver it.”

Sara was flattered and failed to hide her pleasure. “I cannot wait to see her again, but Indiana to Ohio is a long way to come to give birth.”

“Mercy waited for years for one living child, she is willing to come a good distance for another. They have even talked about moving here to be near you permanently.”

Sara was less attuned to the compliment this time, than to the quiet, young girl, a smile nearly, but not quite, present, so like ... Adam’s. “Have we met before?” Sara asked.

“Ach, foolish me,” the older woman said. “I am Lena Zuckerman and this is my daughter Emma. I believe your Adam is my son.”

Chapter 8

Despite the impossibility, Sara’s legs trembled as she lowered herself to a chair. “That cannot be.”

The woman made to speak, but nap time was suddenly and loudly over and three refreshed and lively little girls flowed into the room, Lizzie carrying Hannah.

“Lena, Emma. Here are … my children.” She’d almost called them her husband’s children, but they were hers now too, and they needed to know she was pleased to claim them. Sara tried to introduce each child by name, but Lena began weeping into her handkerchief.

Emma rose to pat her mother’s back and rest her cheek on the woman’s head. Sara did not know what to make of them, and neither did the children. Well, except for Katie, who crawled into the woman’s lap, bringing a fresh supply of tears. “My’s Katie, and my’s five,” the three-year-old said, holding up two fingers.

Before Sara had a chance to lift Katie off the woman’s lap, Adam came in from the barn and hung his hat and coat on the pegs by the door. Rubbing the cold from his hands, he turned, saw the woman, and lost the light in his eyes.

His bad leg buckled.

Cursing, half in German, half in Penn Dutch, he regained his balance, and like the night Abby died, he denied whatever emotion gripped him. His gaze riveted upon the older woman, his expression hardened to an uncaring mask. “You are supposed to be dead!”

Lena seemed at first frightened, but like Adam, she masked it well. Emma began to scream, and Katie scooted off Lena’s lap as the woman rose to calm a daughter, who acted as if Adam might eat her alive.

To soothe her, Lena spoke Emma’s name over and over, like a song.

“
Mein Gott
, you look just like him,” Lena said, regarding Adam from beside her fretting daughter.

“Emma?” Adam’s expression closed, but not before he revealed more hope than Sara had ever seen in him. “Little Emma?” He stepped eagerly forward but Emma screamed again, backed away, gaining speed as she went. Then she turned and ran screaming from the kitchen. She dashed through the best room and out the front door.